


After Hours

by stripyjumpers



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Insecurity, Kissing, M/M, Mildly Dubious Consent, Promiscuity, Self-Esteem Issues, Sexual Content, Unilock
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-09-15
Packaged: 2018-02-09 04:58:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1969878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stripyjumpers/pseuds/stripyjumpers
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John is in university, struggling with his own self-worth and using sex as a way to help himself forget his problems. He doesn't believe that he could ever truly be valued by another person, and that he wouldn't know how to function in a real relationship, but all of that changes when he meets Sherlock Holmes at a club one night.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> So, this story is a little bit of an experiment. I'm feeling out a different writing style, and I'm also trying my hand at writing smut. My version of John is a little different; he’s not as stoic and stubborn, or even self-confident as he normally is, because in this universe I feel like he has to sort of work to get to that point of being able to stand up for himself. 
> 
> I haven't written much more of this, so I'm relying pretty heavily on any feedback that I get. So definitely feel free to tell me what you think or give me suggestions on how to improve or what you'd like to see happen. Thanks for reading :D

Yesterday was John’s 20th birthday, and it went by just like all his other birthdays did: someone was drunk off their arse, there was strange music being played at an unnatural volume, and he was alone in the corner, half-buzzed and somewhat confused. Alright, maybe his eighth birthday party didn’t include him being a little tipsy, but the principle’s the same. No matter where John is, who he’s with, or how old he’s just turned, it’s the same story, and he wakes up the next morning feeling no different save for a slight headache.

When John left for university, he thought, _this is it_. This is his chance to get out of his own personal suburban box of hell. He thought it’d be fantastic to finally get away from Harry and her toxic habits, away from his dad whose sole purpose it seemed was to find new and creative ways to throw his hard-earned money down the drain. Away from soiled childhood memories and late nights with no one but the white noise of the telly to keep him company.

Being at med school, John figured he’d be knee deep in interesting biology and the wonderful world of anatomy, and that he’d make a whole new set of friends who would actually enjoy discussing medicine and chemistry instead of Pall Malls and Jack Daniels.

He had never been so wrong in his entire life.

Now, on the morning after his birthday, as John lay in his sorry excuse for a comfortable bed, he can feel the familiar dull ache in the back of his head returning. He decides not to get up right away; instead he lay back and take a deep breath. He feels flat, and a bit useless, like a rotting plank of wood just sitting on the floor of some old abandoned house. There’s a bit of dried up drool on his cheek, the icing on the cake of this sad morning, and just as he’s trying to scrub it off, his bedroom door bursts open.

John tries to cover himself up out of instinct before realizing that he’s fully clothed _and_ underneath his duvet. A tall bloke with spiky blond hair rushes in, panting and looking a bit frantic. _Evan,_ John remembers. _Shit, I guess he came home with me last night._ He’s appalled at his lack of memory, something that seems to be getting worse as of late.

“Evan, hi,” John mutters, suddenly feeling very small.

Evan looks up at him sharply, as if he were just noticing that John was in the room at all.

“Er, John, right?” he asks. John realizes now that he must be looking for something. Whatever it is, he probably left it here after, well, after whatever it was they did last night, which couldn’t have been much considering John’s clothes are still on.

“Yeah. You looking for something?” John asks as he sits up and rakes his fingers through his hair as if to make himself more presentable.

“My damn _wallet_ , where is it?” He stops himself and looks up at the ceiling in thought. “Let’s see, I had it when I came here, and I know I didn’t go anywhere else ‘cause I passed out on your sofa—“ _Oh, lovely_. “then I left this morning and when I went to get a coffee I couldn’t find it.”

John doesn’t what he wants him to say; it seems like he’s talking more to himself than anything.

“Look mate, I didn’t pinch it off you, if that’s what you’re—“

“No, no, bloke like you wouldn’t do that _._ But have you seen it?” He looks pretty desperate, but right now John’s half asleep and half trying to remember what he even did with him last night, so he’s not exactly in the mood for a scavenger hunt.

“No, I haven’t seen it. Look under the cushions on the sofa, yeah?” He suggests. That’s always where his important stuff seems to end up, anyway.

Evan spews out some form of a “thanks,” and not even two minutes later John hears a declaration of success from the sitting room, then the sound of his front door slamming shut.

John lets out a puff of breath and lands with a soft thud back on his pillow. He squeezes his eyes closed tight and puts his hands on his temples in an effort to help himself remember what happened last night. He knows he went to a club, something he would’ve never imagined himself doing in a thousand lifetimes, yet has quickly become a familiar setting, and he knows he must’ve gotten more drunk than he thought, which is enough to make him want to curl up into a ball like his sister’s hedgehog used to do when they were little.

John knows he’s not going to remember what he and Evan did, not right away, at least. With how he’s been lately, he’s surprised he remembered his name at all.

******

John is doing some washing up in the kitchen when he starts to put together bits and pieces of last night. He’d been sitting at the bar by himself almost the whole night, quickly losing track of how many drinks he was having, and Evan started chatting him up at some point. Things after that are a bit blurry, and then he remembers them coming back to his place, snogging senselessly in his bedroom, and…oh, right. Evan got a bit sick in the loo and crashed on the sofa afterwards.

John sighs in acceptance of his thankfully uneventful evening. Normally, he doesn’t get involved with anyone if he’s not almost completely sober. He likes being in control, knowing what’s going on and being able to remember it. Nine times out of ten, he doesn’t get drunk at all, unlike most of his peers who seem to think that going to university means seeing just how smashed they can get and still pass their exams.

If there’s one thing John’s learned since being here, it’s that everyone’s got their drug of choice. For Harry, it’s always been booze. For his dad, it was gambling. He doesn’t know about his mum, since she left before he and Harry could even talk, but he’s sure there was something she’d turn to when things got bad. For John, nowadays at least, he goes for something much more volatile and potentially destructive. His drug of choice is sex.

******

John doesn’t really ever remember thinking that he was solely attracted to girls. Sure, he fancied them and all, but he always knew there was something about blokes, too. When he was sixteen he had a crush on one of his mates, Adam, but never did anything about it. And it wasn’t solely for fear of being judged; he simply had too much going on at home to handle any sort of relationship, whether it be with a boy or a girl. Having to work two jobs on top of looking after a sister who got into a new kind of trouble every week definitely did not leave time for romance.

John doesn’t have romance in his sights these days, either, though not for lack of opportunity. He’d just rather not get into anything too serious now. I mean hell, he can barely take care of myself sometimes, let alone someone else.

Tonight, for example, is Saturday night, which to John is like Second Friday, sort of like a repeat of the previous night except he actually gets some schoolwork done during the day. He doesn’t, however, want tonight to be a repeat of last night’s birthday disaster, which is why one of his mates came up with the brilliant idea to do the exact same thing, only this time take him to a _different_ club.

******

The club is pretty crowded, which is to be expected, but for some reason John doesn’t quite feel right. It feels like he’s out of tune, like he’s the one sour apple in this batch of other, well, dancing apples.

The walls are dark and wood paneled, but in a sophisticated sort of way. It feels kind of like a classy cabin. The bar is loaded up with men dressed in various neon colors, leaning over a bit too far as they tell exaggerated stories. The more sober ones keep to the side, looking happy with their drinks and idle chatter.

John’s mate, Dylan, spots some of his friends right away, and lets out an ear-splitting scream upon seeing them, something John and his ears still haven’t gotten used to.

After Dylan greets all his friends with gripping hugs, he turns to where John is standing awkwardly by the wall.

“Oi John,” he shouts, as if John’s thirty yards away. “I didn’t expect to see these guys tonight, you don’t mind if I hang around them for a bit do you?”

He’s smiling like he’s just won the lottery, and seems drunk off of the excitement alone, which makes John fear for how he’ll be after he’s actually had a few drinks.

“Go ahead mate, I’ll be fine.” John says, with one of the fake smiles he’s been working on.

“Promise me you’ll go and find yourself a hot bloke to snog in the corner, yeah?”

John laughs, eyeing up the colourful shapes of people moving about the dance floor. “Promise.” He says, and Dylan chuckles in return and is immediately whisked away by his group.

Even though John’s left alone now, he doesn’t mind too much. Dylan’s like that, he’s everybody’s friend. John wouldn’t try to hold him back from having a good time. He met him just a few months ago, so it’s not like they’re super close, though he is the one that usually comes with him when he decides to have a night out.

John looks around at all the people dancing, moving in completely different ways and yet somehow all seeming in sync with the music. There are a few couples clinging to each other like magnets on the sofas, snogging every now and then. He feels even more out of place now, especially since he doesn’t have a drink to hold and casually sip every five minutes.

******

John’s almost finished with his second drink, which went down a lot smoother than the first, and he’s finally starting to feel like part of the crowd. He’s pretty sure that Dylan left with his friends; he hasn’t heard his shrill screaming in a while, but that’s okay, he figured he’d leave. He’s having more fun now anyway, bumping up against random blokes on the dance floor, going around to different clusters of people and showing off his various terrible dance moves.

There’s a bit of sweat pooling under John’s mousy fringe, and as he swipes it away with the sleeve of his shirt, he starts to feel someone grinding up against him.

When he turns around, John’s met with a taller bloke with a sort of round face, dressed in skinny jeans and a thin vintage jumper that somehow looks modern. He’s smiling at him, encouraging him to dance with him, which John happily obliges to.

They don’t say anything as they dance, but John gets a better look at him under the flashing lights. He seems to have hazel eyes, and hair that’s a sort of auburn colour. His hair looks soft too, making John tempted to run his fingers through it.

“You here with anyone?” The man says suddenly, snapping John out of his daydream. His voice is kind, but carries a rusty undertone that makes John’s face flush with interest.

“Nope, and you?”

“I’m all alone too. What’s your name?” He’s eyeing him up now, he can tell. He’s been in this scenario too many times to miss the signs.

“John.”

“Josh? Nice! I’m Calum.” He hold out his hand in greeting, and when John goes to shake it he pulls him flush against him, smirking and moving his hips over his.

“John,” He chokes out, his sudden arousal making it hard to speak. “It’s John.”

“What?” Calum speaks close to John’s ear, close enough that his lips brush his skin.

“My name, it’s John, not Josh.” John understands the confusion, it _is_ rather hard to talk with the music blasting so loud, but Calum doesn’t seem too concerned, he only continues to thrust against him in an unfairly seductive manner.

“Well then, _John_ ,” he purrs, “How about you and me go somewhere we can actually hear each other?”

John knows what that translates to, and he knows he’s told himself a million times that he shouldn’t be so eager to hook up with just anyone, but then he get in situations like this and he finds that he can’t help it.

“Yeah, that’d be nice. Anywhere you had in mind?”

******

John’s not quite sure how, but suddenly he and Calum are in a dimly lit broom cupboard, groping and snogging like their lives depend on it. It was all a bit of a blur, so he doesn’t even know how they managed to get to this part of the club, but thank god they did because the sexual tension was starting to fog up John’s head.

Calum’s mouth is hot and insistent against John’s, and his whole body feels like it’s engulfed in flames. The other man’s hair is just as soft as John imagined, maybe even softer as he cards his fingers through it over and over.

As they kiss, John forgets everything that he’s been stressing about. It’s like the only things that exist in the world are the sounds of their mouths coming together and their breathy moans filling the air. All the studying he has to do, the homework, the worry, it all goes out the window.

“Oh, god,” Calum breathes, continuing to kiss John sloppily. John can’t tell if he’s enjoying how he kisses him, or just the fact that he is.

Suddenly, Calum’s hands reach up to wrap around John’s, and he pulls them away from his head, making John put his hands around his waist instead.

“Sorry, don’t really like the hair thing,” he says.

He goes back to kissing and grinding against John, who can’t help but feel a little deflated. He loved the feeling of his hair between his fingers, but if that’s not what he wants, then that’s alright.

“S’fine,” John mumbles.

“Mmm, Josh,” Calum moans.

 _It’s John,_ John thinks, but there’s no time to correct him when he grabs his hands again and starts putting them up under his shirt.

John takes the hint and starts touching him all over his smooth skin. He rubs all across his back and sides, using the noises he makes to judge whether or not he likes something he does. He decides to change the pace a bit by going in and planting kisses up his neck. He definitely likes it. He lets out a short gasp after every kiss, so John continues his ascent until he reaches his lips again.

They go back to snogging, only this time a bit more carefully. Now that they’ve both calmed down a bit, John realizes that their slight height difference makes things a little awkward. Calum’s nose keeps almost going in John’s eye, making him flinch back and interrupt the flow of things.

John doesn’t really know where to put his hands either, so he just holds onto him. Calum doesn’t hold him, though; his hands are on the wall on either side of him, just sort of keeping him in place.

John winces in pain as Calum decides to bite John’s bottom lip.

“Ouch, shit!” John curses, checking to see if he’s bleeding.

“Ooh, I’m so sorry, I thought you’d like it.”

“No, no, it’s fine, just caught me off guard is all. Maybe a bit gentler next time, yeah?”

“Mm, yeah. So erm…” His voice trails off, and he gives John some serious puppy eyes before taking his hand and placing it directly over the obvious bulge in his jeans. John can see the unspoken question written all over his face.

John licks his lips and leans in close, rubbing over Calum’s clothed erection more assertively. He takes his voice down to a low rumble and speaks right in his ear.

“What do you want?”

Calum smiles slyly at John. “You know what I want,”

“Do you want me to guess?”

“Go ahead,” he coos.

“Mm, do you want me to guess with my hand, or my mouth?”

“Ooh, your mouth, I think.”

“Good choice.”

Slowly, John lowers himself to his knees. His face is right up against his groin, right where he wants him to be, he’s sure. He reaches around into his back pocket and pulls out a condom that he took with him, like he always does.

“Oh, came prepared, did you?” He teases.

“Always.” John gives him a wink for good measure before unzipping his jeans.

******

By the time John leaves the club, it’s past one in the morning, he’s still a little buzzed, and his jaw is embarrassingly sore. Calum was quite appreciative of their time together, but it was clear he didn’t want anything more. It’s understandable, and is perfectly fine by John since he’s only out to have a bit of fun anyway.

John lazily hails a cab, checking his phone while he waits. He’s got no missed calls or messages, which is good; he hates having to tell Harry where he was so she can lecture him on how irresponsible he’s being. Even though she sounds like a big hypocrite sometimes, he can’t say he’s not secretly glad that she still looks out for him.

John hops into the cab sluggishly, feeling strangely sullen. Normally after a night like this, he feels fantastic; high on the fact that he made someone come apart like that. 

John’s not sure what it is. Maybe he’s still upset that Calum didn’t want him to touch his hair, though he really doesn’t know why that bothered him so much. Maybe he’s upset because he didn’t touch _his_ hair, but then again, they usually don’t. It doesn’t make sense; he did everything like he normally does. He should be on cloud nine, but it feels more like he’s sitting at the bottom of a skip.

******

When John gets back to his flat, the odd emptiness still hasn’t left. He plops himself down onto his ratty, sinking sofa, and tries to think of why he’s feeling like this.

Calum didn’t reciprocate, which is frustrating, but not unusual. The guys he meets are hardly ever generous lovers. They just want a quickie in the loo or something, and he’s perfectly happy to give them what they want.

John decides to blame his poor mood on the fact that he had to have a discreet wank in the men’s room before he could go back out to the dance floor; he’s too out of it to try to think of any other reason.

John grabs his remote from the coffee table and flips on the telly. He doesn’t actually watch it anymore, but he’s been needing it for company a lot these days. he put the sleep timer on, snatches the afghan that hangs over the back of the sofa and settles in for the night.

******

The next few days pass by uneventfully. John goes to school, comes home, makes paper airplanes for an hour before doing his homework, the usual. Everything is as it always is, yet he still can’t help but feeling like there’s something missing.

John invites his friend Mike over for the night; he’s good at things like this, and won’t want to help solve problems by taking John for a drink. They’ll probably do some studying for a while, too, which will definitely get his mind off things.

It’s almost nine at night when Mike comes around. He shuffles in with his overstuffed backpack and an armful of books, looking thoroughly exhausted after taking the stairs.

“You alright there Mike?” John laughs, giving him a friendly pat on the back.

“Feels like you add another step to the staircase every time I come,” He settles all his books down on the coffee table and sits in his usual spot on the sofa.

“Fancy a cuppa? Or I’ve got beer, if you’d like.” John offers.

“Just water for me, actually.”

“Oh, watching your figure are you?” he jokes, getting him a glass of water.

“Always.”

******

Mike and John are halfway through their anatomy homework when Mike starts to notice something’s wrong. John hasn’t been talking much all night, just focusing on his work.

“You feeling okay, John?” he asks.

John gives him fake smile #4 and says that he’s fine.

“You sure?” he insists, “We’re actually getting work done, and you haven’t even gone off about some story from your weekend.”

“Yeah well, my weekend wasn’t so great, actually.”

“But it was your birthday on Friday, wasn’t it? What happened?”

“It er, wasn’t so great.”

“C’mon,” he whines, nudging John with his arm, “that’s not the John Watson I know! By now you’d have me knee-deep in a story about a random bloke you met at a bar.”

“I guess I’m not the normal John Watson right now then.”

Mike frowns and pushes up his drooping, round glasses. He puts his pencil down to turn to John in concern.

“Is it Harry? Has she been on your case again?”

“No, Mike, nothing like that. I just…haven’t been feeling my best lately.”  

“Hm,” he thinks for a minute. “Have you thought about getting yourself a boyfriend? A proper one?”

“Geez Mike, how many times? I told you I _don’t_ want a boyfriend. Or a girlfriend. I don’t want anyone.”

“I’m telling you John, all this sleeping around you do—“

“I do not sleep around!”

“Well, you do a _bit_ …”

“Oh my god, are you calling me a slag? You are, aren’t you?”

“No, no, I’m not saying that. Just…maybe it’d be easier for you to get through rough times if you had a real, supportive partner, y’know?”

“Yeah but come on Mike, who’d want me for a boyfriend?” As soon it comes out of his mouth, John feels immediately pathetic. And then, to his utmost horror, Mike starts _laughing_ , giggling even.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing it’s just, well you’re the _second_ person to say that to me this week.”

John looks at him in surprise and confusion. “Who was the first?”

******

According to Mike, this place, The Criterion, is one of the ‘hottest up and coming nightclubs in town.’ He told John that his friend Sherlock works here, and that he should meet up with him because apparently they both complained to him about being bad boyfriend material within the same week. John’s not too sure about this. Going by the way Mike described him, this Sherlock bloke sounds a bit mad.

The dance floor is pretty packed, but it’s nothing like the usual clubs John goes to. This place has, well, _class_ , he supposes. The walls are covered in eccentric but tasteful wallpaper, the lighting is coordinated and actually quite beautiful, and from where he’s standing, the bar looks packed with a wide variety of expensive—er, quality drinks.

John’s here alone because Mike is convinced that he’s cupid and that this is a date or something, but the way John sees it, he’ll say hello to this Sherlock guy and if they get on, then maybe they can snog in a _classy_ broom cupboard. That’d be a nice change of pace.

Mike told John that Sherlock gets off his shift at eleven, and it’s half past ten now, so he heads over to the bar to meet him. There’s a few people working behind the bar, so he’s not sure which one he is. He wasn’t told anything about Sherlock’s appearance, Mike just said, “Believe me, you’ll know,” whatever that was supposed to mean.

John plops himself down on one of the stools and is immediately approached by a man with dark, unruly curls that seem to swallow most of his face. He stares intensely at John for a moment instead of asking me what he’d like to drink.

“So, is your exam in the morning or afternoon?” His voice takes John surprise. It’s about eight octaves deeper than he could ever have imagined, and he’s giving him this utterly smug look that he’s not sure how to feel about. Then it hits him that he’s just somehow asked him about the exam he has tomorrow.

“Sorry, what?”

The man smiles softly and begins to prepare a drink; amazingly, one of John’s _favourite_ drinks.

“Your exam. It’s obvious you’ve got one that you’ve been studying hard for. My guess would be that it’s in the morning, going by how bloodshot your eyes are.”

Instinctively John rubs at his eyes, as if that’s going to make it go away.

“Hang on, how did you—“

“Drink up, John.” He says, sliding the drink over and giving him a wink.

“ _Oh,_ you’re Sherlock, then? Mike told you about me?”

“He told me your name, vaguely what you look like and that you’d be meeting me here tonight.”

John smiles to himself, and for the first time, actually looks at him properly. He’s wearing a black waistcoat, like the other servers, except his dress shirt underneath is a nice burgundy. He can’t quite tell the colour of his eyes in this lighting, but god, his _lips_ , they look impossible.

“Alright there, John?” Sherlock asks, snapping John out of his musings.

“What? Yeah, m’fine.” And slightly awestruck at how bloody gorgeous he is.

“Really? Because you haven’t touched your drink.”

“Oh, right.” John stutters. He takes a sip and of course it tastes amazing. He tries to enjoy it as much as possible because he has a feeling he won’t even be able to afford another. Why did Mike’s friend have to work at such a posh place? “By the way, how did you know—“

“Sorry, I’ve got to dash; still working.” Sherlock shoots him a quick smile before going back to pour and mix drinks for other patrons.

For the next twenty minutes or so, John just sort of watches Sherlock while slowly sipping his drink. He is…strangely elegant. A sophisticated madness? He doesn’t know how to describe it, but just the way he moves, there’s something about it. He mixes all sorts of colourful drinks together, making the act into a spectacle, like a magic show. It seems like he’s got it down to a science, for Christ’s sake. John’s both intrigued and impressed, and blushing like a damn schoolgirl every time Sherlock turns to him and winks.

When Sherlock’s shift is over, he comes around the bar and takes the seat next to John. His waistcoat is off now, and he somehow looks a bit different than he did when he was working, almost like he’s just finished a performance. John looks awkwardly down at his now finished drink because frankly, he’s not used to meeting people like this, and he can’t think of what to say.

“I see you enjoyed your drink.” Sherlock says.

“Very much, yes.”

He looks at John like he’s a puzzle that’s almost finished and he’s deciding where to put the next piece.

“You’ve got questions.”

John laughs a little, thinking about the wave of questions that flooded through his head when he was watching him earlier.

“Yeah. Who are you? What do you do?”

“A bit of everything, at the moment. I’m getting my degree in chemistry but I’m also studying a multitude of topics on the side.”

“A chemist, eh? So what’re you doing working here, then? I know I hardly know you but it doesn’t exactly feel like your scene.”

“Oh, quite the contrary. It’s perfect. Not only do I get to closely observe the effects of inebriation and societal norms associated with this type of setting, but I also get to use some science in terms of mixology and calculating one’s level of alcoholic intake. It’s endlessly fascinating and sparks a wealth of new ideas for experiments.”

John’s not going to lie, he’s a tad bit intimidated by his level of intelligence. A super genius like him, hanging about with a bloke like John? Maybe he’s just had a dry spell, John thinks, and wants to get some action as quickly and easily as he can, so he took up Mike on his offer to set them up.

“Experiments, right.” John could probably listen to him talk about all this stuff for hours, but he figures the night isn’t getting any younger and Sherlock seems the type to get bored easy, so he tries to move things along a bit.

“So, do you want to um, y’know,” John says in a hushed whisper, leaning a little closer to him.

“Do I want to what?”

“Well, you know, maybe we could go someplace more, um, quiet?”

“Oh, right of course. I know this fantastic Chinese place, it’s open ‘til two and—“

“Wait, what?”

“A Chinese place.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Dinner.”

“What about dinner?”

Sherlock looks just about as confused as John is. John can’t help but feel like he’s missed something.

“Do you not want to go to dinner?”

John turns to look at his watch for a moment and lets out a breathy laugh.

“It’s…past eleven.”

“Yes well like I said the place _is_ open ‘til two, and I most likely haven’t eaten since Wednesday so it’d probably be a good idea.”

“I still don’t understand. You want to go to dinner with me?”

“Yes. Problem?”

“No, no it’s just, um,” John can’t even remember the last time he actually went out to dinner with someone. Hell, he can’t even remember the last time he had a real, proper date at all. He’s staring up at Sherlock, probably looking like a deer in headlights, and then all of a sudden, words are slipping out of his mouth before he can stop them.

“Okay, yeah. God, yes.”

And just like that, John’s made a date with Sherlock Holmes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried to give a little nod to the canon by mentioning the Criterion, which is the restaurant where John meets Stamford. So yeah, I hope you guys enjoyed, and don't forget that feedback is certainly welcome :) thanks so much for stopping by!


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the short chapter, I'm still working through where I want this story to go. Any suggestions would be welcome :)

The Chinese restaurant is a pretty small place with dim orange and yellow lighting, tucked away within a row of other little shops and cafes.

Sherlock and John sit across from each other in a cozy booth by the window, scanning their menus. John’s having some trouble deciding what he wants to order considering how much he keeps glancing up at Sherlock. He’s got this sort of ethereal quality about him that makes John wonder what he must look like in comparison.

John looks down at himself, at his dark plaid shirt with its signature hole at the bottom, and his charcoal grey cardigan that’s always been a bit big for him. His scruffy blond hair is nothing compared to Sherlock’s perfect raven curls. And those eyes, god, John could get lost in them.

“See anything you like?” Sherlock asks, snapping John out of his reverie.

“What?”

“The menu. Are you seeing anything you’d want to order?”

“Oh, right. Um, probably just some lo mein or something. You?”

“Dumplings. You can always tell a place has good dumplings by the bottom third of the door handle.”

“Wait, what?”

“I’m joking, John. Do keep up.”

“Right, yeah,” John chuckles. “But you said something like that earlier. That you could, what, tell I have an exam tomorrow by looking at my eyes?”

“Well of course. It was obvious. The evidence was all over you, all I had to do was look.”

John puts his menu down and folds his hands under his chin. This night is definitely proving to be more interesting than he could’ve imagined.

“But what do you mean? You just figure things out about people by looking at them?”

“Precisely. I make observations and put them together to form a logical conclusion. I haven’t quite gotten it down to a science yet; still working out some kinks, but I’ll get there.”

“That’s brilliant,” John blurts out, beaming up at Sherlock like a child seeing a sweets shop for the first time.

“You really think so?” he asks. He seems surprised by how impressed John is.

“Of course; it’s fantastic. I’d have never thought to do that.”

“I guess I should be relieved you didn’t tell me to piss off.”

“Why would I do that?”

Sherlock shrugs. “That’s what people normally do.”

“Well those people are tossers.”

Sherlock laughs, and it’s a gorgeous sound, one John would love to hear again.

“You knew my favourite drink, though. How’d you manage that one?”

“Shot in the dark, that. Good one though.” He quirks a small smile before looking up at the waiter coming to their table.

******

Dinner is, well, lovely. Sherlock and John talk about university and how their classes are, including how stupid everyone at Sherlock’s school is, according to him. He tells John that he and Mike met one night when Mike caught him sneaking into one of their bio labs.

They talk about their siblings; Sherlock’s got an older brother named Mycroft who apparently is the biggest, laziest prat that the British government has the misfortune of working with. John tells him about Harry and he seems surprised when John says that she’s his sister, but not surprised when he tells him about the drinking.

By the time they leave, it’s closing in on one in the morning, but John doesn’t feel an ounce of tiredness. There’s a pleasant buzz running through him that, for the first time in a long time, isn’t from any alcohol swimming in his veins.

Sherlock lives nearby, so John offers to walk home with him, and he can’t help the fluttering of anticipation he feels as they head down the pavement. They talk the whole way there, but the closer they get, the more John finds himself staring at Sherlock’s lips, wondering what it’d be like to kiss them.

“Well, here we are. Home sweet home, I suppose.” Sherlock says as they come to a stop. He stands and fidgets with all the keys in his pocket for a moment. The door to his flat is red with lots of fancy trim; different and interesting, like him. There’s a little coffee shop right next door that John imagines would be warm and inviting during the day.

Sherlock locates his key and looks hesitantly at John.

“Well, I-“

“Sherlock,” John says, moving closer to him. There’s a tension building between the two of them, a pleasant tension that John hasn’t felt in ages. “I had a really great time.” John steps forward so their faces are just breaths from each other’s. He leans up on his tippy toes and closes his eyes, waiting for Sherlock’s lips to come down to meet his, but instead he feels Sherlock’s hand on his chest, gently pushing him away.

“John, um—“

“Oh, I—“

“I just—“

“No, sorry. I’m sorry.”

“I-I’m flattered by your interest, but I think that we should—“

“Right, yeah.” John takes a step away, rubbing the back of his neck in embarrassment and praying that it’s too dark for Sherlock to see his face flushing with red. He can’t look him in the eye, so he focuses on his shoes instead. “Sorry, I thought…yeah, sorry.”

“No, it’s…fine,”

“I should leave. Thank you for dinner though; it was good.” John starts to walk away for fear of embarrassing himself further.

“John, wait,”

John turns around to face him, still having trouble making eye contact.

“Erm, I had a good time as well.” Sherlock says.

“Oh, okay. Good. Well, goodnight then.”

“Goodnight, John.”

John takes his time trying to find a cab. Walking around is helping to clear his head a bit. This time of night—well, technically day, is his favourite. The streets are quiet and uncrowded, like the city itself is calming its jumbled thoughts. He looks down all the alleyways and thinks about the odd little slices of nowhere that they are. Just a nothing trapped in between somethings, kinda like him.

John’s not going to deny his disappointment. He really did want to kiss Sherlock, and he thought that’s what Sherlock wanted too. He just doesn’t understand. If the night wasn’t supposed to end in sex, then what did Sherlock want from him? They exchanged numbers during dinner, but John doesn’t know if Sherlock will text him or not. He’ll have to wait and see.

When he finally gets home, John goes straight to the fridge to grab a beer. He can already hear his conscience nagging him about having a hangover tomorrow during his exam, but the icy sting in his chest is making it hard to care.

John shuts all the lights off, chugs the rest of his beer and turns on the telly. He probably won’t sleep too well but he curls up on the sofa anyway and closes his eyes, trying not to think about Sherlock.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was a real challenge to write, so I'm still a little iffy about it. If you see something that you think I could change or could've done better, feel free to let me know.
> 
> It's also not been beta'd or Brit-picked so all mistakes are mine.

John wakes up the next morning with the start of what he knows will be a miserable headache. His back is sore in all sorts of places thanks to his odd sleeping position on the sofa, and to top it all off, the grey sky outside his window is no doubt a promise of rain. Fantastic.

It’s not until a little later, when John’s really starting to enjoy the warmth of the shower water that he remembers he has an exam this morning, and he hasn’t got any idea what time it is.

John scrambles to turn off the water, rushes out of the tub, nearly slips, and gets dried off and dressed in record time.

As soon as John’s pulled his jumper on, he checks the time on his phone to find he’s only got fifteen minutes to get to class before he’s late. Oh, bugger it all, he thinks. This day keeps getting worse and it’s barely even started.

******

John’s exam goes just as well as he’d predicted, which isn’t so great. He probably would’ve had a better time focusing if he hadn’t kept thinking about how much he’d bollocksed everything up with Sherlock last night.

John’s constantly checking his phone to see if Sherlock texted, even though he would’ve known if he did since his phone’s in his pocket and he would’ve felt it vibrate. And yet, each time he takes it out there’s still that silent hope that somehow he missed it.

At two in the afternoon, John reports for duty at Otto’s, the shabby little cafe where he works part time. He says a quick hello to his boss and heads to the backroom to grab his apron and name tag.

John mostly works at the cash register, which is nice, but it also means he’s in charge of getting people sweets from the display cases and having to watch them stand there with their finger to their mouth, humming to themselves as they decide what they want.

John takes his position at the register and is immediately bored to tears. Just knowing that he’s got another six hours of this constant humdrum is enough to make him want to bang his head against the wall. This isn’t like him at all, though. Normally he’d able to come in and basically zone out until his shift ended, but now he’s tapping his fingers with impatience and looking for something to occupy his mind.

Of course, John ends up thinking back to last night, how Sherlock made everything seem so interesting and fascinating, like the world had colour again. The short amount of time he spent with Sherlock seems ten times more vibrant and exciting compared to this little place where the only sounds that can be heard are people’s combined murmurings and soft clanking of dishware.

“Hiya, John,” a voice from across the room calls.

“Oh, hey Greg,” John waves at the brown-haired man who’s shooting him a friendly smile.

Greg always says hello, even though he and John don’t really talk that much. He’s pretty new here still, only started about two weeks ago. He seems nice, even if he does chatter on about nothing but football to the other employees.

As John watches Greg scrub down some tables, his mobile vibrates in his pocket. For a moment, it doesn’t register that he’s been waiting for that to happen all day.

“Oh, shit,” John mutters to myself as he digs out his phone. He’s really not supposed to have it on him while he’s working, but his boss is pretty nice and she knows he gets his work done no matter what.

Thankfully, the text isn’t from Harry as John was dreading, but instead from Sherlock, and John’s grinning from ear to ear before he even lets himself open it.

_Which do you think is better: chocolate cake or tiramisu? –SH_

Hm. Definitely not the sort of text John was expecting. He looks up to make sure he doesn’t have any customers waiting and quickly types out his reply.

_Chocolate cake I guess. Is this for an experiment?_

_No. Mycroft asked me to pick up dessert for him and I want to get something he won’t like. What’s in tiramisu? –SH_

John tries not to chuckle too loudly, lest he grab any unwanted attention from his coworkers.

_It’s like layers of custard and some type of biscuit, and rum and coffee I think. Also, why do you sign your texts with your initials? I know it’s you lol_

_Thank you! Mycroft hates coffee. Tiramisu it is. Oh, that’s my leftover signature from when I got a new phone and no one knew my new number. I’m much too lazy to turn it off though –SH_

_Too busy with all your sciencey stuff eh?_

_Way too busy. The jar of eyeballs in the microwave is not going to experiment on itself. –SH_

John can’t really tell if Sherlock’s being serious or if that’s his idea of a joke, but he laughs a little too loud either way.

“Oi, what’s got you giggling over there, mate?” Greg asks. He’s much closer to the counter now than he was before. When did that happen? “Are the pastries in the glass case tellin’ you all the latest gossip?” he jokes, grinning cheekily at John.

“No, it’s nothing.” John tries to say without smiling.

“Bollocks. I haven’t seen you smile that big since—well, ever, really.”

“C’mon Greg, back to work. Don’t wanna be seen slackin’ off do you?”

“Yeah, real funny, says the person _texting_ on the job.”

“Hey, it’s pretty slow today. People aren’t gonna come rushing in during all this rain. I think I can send a text or two while I man the register.”

“Whatever you say, mate. Just try not to giggle like a schoolgirl next time, yeah?”

“I was _not_ —“ John protests, but Greg’s already laughing to himself and going back over to clear some tables.

John’s phone buzzes again and he realizes he hasn’t replied to Sherlock yet. He looks at the message thinking it’s going to be from Sherlock, bugging him about cake or whatnot, but instead it’s from Dylan.

_fancy going out tonight? i got the night off! :D_

Crap. John’s not exactly sure he’s in the mood for Dylan’s shouting or his ever-worsening habit of ditching him. Then again, the last time John hooked up with someone was almost a week ago with Calum. He thought Sherlock had wanted to, well, get together, but he supposes he was wrong. And maybe being with someone tonight could help him forget about that awkward almost-kiss with Sherlock.

_Sure thing. The usual place?_

_yupp, see you there!_

Well, that’s decided then. Good. It’ll be fine. It’ll be just like it always is.

*****

Sherlock and John ended up texting throughout most of John’s shift, much to Greg’s chagrin, and especially when John continued to giggle ‘like a schoolgirl’ as Greg so eloquently put it. It’s safe to say that was the most fun John’s ever had at work.

Now, though, John’s back to what he’s used to; fumbling down a corridor of a club with a bloke he’s just met, desperately looking for a closet or a dark corner to have some more privacy. Honestly, sometimes he wishes he had the patience to go through the trouble of going to either their place or his, but he supposes it’s more of a heat of the moment thing.

This guy, Ian, is a little rougher than John’s used to. He’s got his hands fisted tightly in John’s hair and may or may not be trying to literally eat him.

Finally they find a door, which luckily leads to a small bathroom that’s only made for one occupant. Ian slams John against the back of the door to close it and lock them inside.

God, John wishes Ian would slow down. He hasn’t even been with him ten minutes and he’s already sore in several places.

“Hey, er, Ian,” John pants, trying to get a word in between his messy kisses.

“Mmm, want you,” Ian growls.

“Okay, okay. But maybe we could slow down a bit first, yeah?”

“God, you’re so fucking hot,” he breathes, swiftly ignoring John and beginning to plant hard kisses on his neck.

One of Ian’s hands is on John’s hip, pressing him into the door, and the other is wrapped a little too strongly around his neck. It’s getting harder for John to breathe, and even harder to try and talk.

“P-please,” John chokes out, which he realizes isn’t a good idea because Ian seems to take it as encouragement.

John’s voice comes right back to him, though, when Ian bites down hard near his pulse point and he screams out in pain. For a split second he thinks that’ll get him to stop, but instead Ian clamps his hand down over John’s mouth.

“Oi, don’t wanna be too loud, do we?”

Thankfully he takes his hand off after that, but John still feels like he’s gasping desperately for air.

“Ian, stop,” He says as loud as he can.

John thinks Ian actually heard him because he finally stops his violent kissing.

“What?” Ian snaps.

“I said stop, just stop.”

John tries to push him away, but Ian fists both his hands in John’s shirt to shove him harder against the door and keep him still.

“I thought you wanted this.” Ian says as if he’s just been scandalized.

“I do, I mean, I did, but I asked you to slow down.”

“What if I don’t wanna slow down?”

“Then I’m leaving.”

“Oh, come on. How about just a handy real quick, then?”

“God, no.”

“Fucking hell, don’t tell me I bought you a drink for nothing!”

The words sting more than John cares to admit, but he clenches his jaw and tries to get Ian away from him again.

“No. Now get off me.”

“You’re kidding right?”

“No, I’m serious. Get the _hell_ away from me.”

John grabs Ian’s wrists in an attempt to peel his fingers out from his shirt, but Ian keeps his hold and uses it to shake John around.

“Let go, you fucking arse!” John shouts, and that does it for Ian.

Clearly angry, Ian yanks John forward and throws him back into the door, where John’s cheek makes contact with the metal door hinge, sending a burst of pain shooting through his face. Immediately he slumps to the ground with his back to the wall.

It takes John a minute to register that Ian’s left, and he’s thankful for the momentary relief that provides, but he’s still in an incredible amount of pain and trying to catch his breath.

John puts his hand to his cheek as gently as possible, but winces at the touch anyway. The tips of his fingers come back coated in blood. He knows he should try to get up, to call for help, but he really can’t be arsed to move. It’s not just the physical pain that’s keeping him on the floor, it’s everything else. Everything that he’s been doing. Sleeping around with all these men, thinking he wasn’t going to get hurt somewhere along the line.

John wonders if he should call Sherlock. Would he be awake now? Oh god, what would he think of him? Barely two days after he tries to kiss him and already he’s desperate for someone else.

John decides that he should phone Mike. He’s reliable, not judgmental, and he’s going to med school too so maybe he can help patch John up as well.

*****

It’s been two days, and John’s barely budged from the sofa. Now it’s almost eleven at night and all he’s been doing the whole day is watching the telly without really watching and fall asleep on and off.

Mike took John home the other night. John’s memories of it all are a bit hazy, but he knows Mike didn’t yell at him or say ‘I told you so’ like Harry would have done. He cleaned up John’s cheek and checked his pupils and even stayed with him for a few hours. John hopes he remembered to thank him. He owes him some free sweets from Otto’s, for sure.

John was too sore to do much moving around yesterday, but everything feels a little better now that he’s had plenty of rest. His back doesn’t feel like it’s on fire anymore and the swelling in his cheek has gone down considerably.

John’s phone buzzes from where it sits on the coffee table, and his heart flutters a bit in excitement at the sound. He and Sherlock have been texting every few hours, and somehow no matter what they’re talking about, Sherlock always manages to make John laugh.

_Tell me you’re as bored as I am right now. –SH_

John smiles at the message. He hasn’t known Sherlock for very long, but he can already tell that boredom is his archenemy, aside from his brother of course.

_Probably not. Why’re you bored?_

_The people here are so tedious tonight! –SH_

_People where?_

_At work. –SH_

_You’re at work? Wait then why are you texting me?_

_I could’ve asked you the same question the other day. –SH_

_Hey I told you we were having a slow day, I could’ve texted all I wanted._

_If you say so. You should come here, if it’s convenient. –SH_

John stares blankly at the message. He doesn’t know if he wants Sherlock to see him like this. He’d take one look at him and know exactly what happened. The cut under John’s eye doesn’t look nearly as bad as it did before, but his neck is still littered with purple and red marks. He’d have to put on a big turtleneck before he could face Sherlock.

_If inconvenient, come anyway. –SH_

John chuckles to myself, thinking Sherlock must be seriously bored. Even though he’s nervous, John really does want to see him. He actually makes him feel, well, _not_ like shit, which is nice.

John has a quick internal argument with himself before deciding that he may as well go considering he’s sure to be sporting this bruise on his face for the foreseeable future, and he can’t hide from Sherlock forever.

*****

When John gets to The Criterion, he feels oddly intimidated. The only reason he got in so fast was because Sherlock told the bouncer about him.

John’s severely underdressed in his baggy black hoodie that he had to wear since it was the only piece of clothing he owned that would cover the hickies on his neck. He walks with his head mostly down until he gets near the bar.

Sherlock’s in his uniform, expertly mixing up a drink for the woman in front of him. When he spots John, though, he nearly drops the glass he’s holding. Must have noticed the bruising, then.

John takes a seat and fiddles with his thumbs on the counter while he waits for Sherlock to come over.

Sherlock finishes serving a few other people and makes his way over to John. John can’t look at him, and he’s almost afraid to hear what he’s gonna say first.

“Would you like a drink?” Sherlock asks. John looks up at him, and he’s giving him a small, reassuring smile.

“Um, no thanks.”

“How about something to eat, then? Clearly you haven’t eaten all day.”

“How could you possibly know that? I’m starting to think you’re not really a genius and you’re just stalking me.”

“Hardly. Though even if I were, you’d never know it. I’m very light on my feet.”

“Good to know.” John laughs.

“I’ll get you some water. Be right back.”

Sherlock walks away in a flurry before John has the chance to say anything. He’s hoping Sherlock continues to not mention the state of his face or the way he keeps adjusting his hood so it lays just right around his neck. John used to imagine that hiding love bites would make him blush and think about the person he’d been with, like a secret reminder of their time together, but now the last thing he wants is a reminder.

Sherlock comes back and hands John an ice cold bottle of water. John thanks him and take a few sips.

“You really should eat, though.” Sherlock says.

“I dunno, I’m not really hungry.”

“Neither am I half the time, but needs must.”

John shakes his head. “I haven’t got any money on me."

“Well the food here isn’t despicable, and I can get you something on the house; the chef owes me a favour.”

John looks down at his water, trying not to let Sherlock see his face because he thinks he might actually be blushing.

“Er, you don’t have to do that. I’m fine, really.”

“Good, pizza it is.” Sherlock winks at John and runs off again. Christ, what has John gotten himself into?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As always any comments or suggestions would be greatly appreciated :) thanks for reading!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this chapter's short, but this story has been giving me some trouble and it's taken me a while to get the motivation to keep writing. Comments/suggestions are always good :)

Sometimes, John thinks he’s taken to sleeping on the sofa because somehow, it feels less lonely than his bed. There’s so much empty space on his mattress, space for him to toss and turn, but there’s no room for that on the two small cushions where he lays now in the darkened sitting room, trying to get relaxed enough to fall asleep.

His mind has been buzzing with thoughts of Sherlock and the nature of their relationship. Did Sherlock want them to stay friends, or was he interested in more? Sherlock had taken him to dinner that first night, which had certainly felt like a date, but then hadn’t been too keen on kissing and they haven’t talked about that since.

After the night that Sherlock scored John a free slice of pizza at the bar, they’d been texting and seeing each other even more. And the more time John spends with Sherlock, the happier he feels, which then gives him a strange sort of feeling, like he’s waiting for the punchline, waiting for things to go down the drain already since that’s what he’s become used to.

After a few more minutes of overanalyzing the past few weeks, John finally nods off to the thought of possibly inviting Sherlock over for a movie night, considering Sherlock had recently admitted to never seeing any of the Lord of the Rings films.

****

Somewhere in the back of John’s mind, he knows that he’s dreaming, but that doesn’t stop his heart from pounding in his chest or the screams that try to escape his throat. In his dream, he’s back in the club where he met Ian, only it’s just the two of them there, and Ian is chasing him down like a viscous, hungry wolf. John runs and runs down never ending hallways, trying to find an exit that doesn’t exist, until he opens a door that leads to the tiny bathroom stall where Ian is already waiting, ready to pounce. John tries with all his might to scream, but no sound comes out, and Ian lunges at him.

Upon waking, the first thing John does is check to see if he’s bleeding anywhere, which he realizes is completely irrational after less than two seconds. The next thing he does is try to stop panting like he’s just run a marathon.

After regaining some semblance of a normal breathing pattern, John does what he’s always done after having a nightmare; he reaches for his phone to call Harry. John’s been prone to nightmares ever since he was little, and Harry has always been the bluntly reassuring older sister that he needed, scoffing and saying things like “Monsters aren’t real, stupid, now go back to bed.” But as John looks at his phone it occurs to him that he hasn’t had a nightmare this bad in almost two years, and Harry’s changed since then, and not for the better.

For a fleeting moment, John thinks about calling Sherlock. Sherlock would probably be awake now, right? Turning toasters into rockets or something. But what would John say? Oh, what the hell, John thinks, he needs to talk to someone now or he’ll never be able to calm down. He hits Sherlock’s contact name and listens with bated breath as he waits.

“John?” Sherlock answers.

Oh, god. This was a bad idea. This was _such_ a bad idea. John should hang up, tell him he phoned him by accident.

“John?”

“Er, hi.” John mutters. He cringes at how gravelly his voice is and how out of breath he sounds.

“What’s wrong?”

“How do you know something’s wrong?”

“Because it’s after two in the morning, and you phoned me when you could’ve just texted. People rarely call these days unless it’s important or they’re in some sort of distress, and I highly doubt you called me to announce you’re having a baby.”

John smiles, the thought easing some of the tension away.

“Oh, you ruined the surprise.” John says.

“Did I?”

“Yeah, it’s a girl.”

“Promise you’ll name her after me.”

“Oh yeah, little Sherlockina running around, can you imagine?” John laughs.

“John, are you alright?” Sherlock asks more seriously.

“What? Yeah, I’m fine. W-we could just text instead if you want. I don’t really know I why I called you. Stupid idea—“

“No, its fine, but clearly you’re not.”

“Mm, you are good, aren’t you? Deducing through the phone.”

“People’s voices alone can tell you a surprising amount of information. It’s easy when you know what to listen for.”

“Well, what does my voice tell you?”

“That you’ve been trying to sleep and either something is keeping you awake or something just woke you up. My money’s on abruptly woken up going by how short your breaths were when I first picked up the phone.”

“Hit the nail on the head, yeah. I just, um, had a bit of a nightmare, is all.” _Christ, I sound like a five year old._ John thinks.

“A bit?”

“Just a smidge.” John jokes. “Listen, that night at the club, when I had that big scrape on my face, you could tell what happened, couldn’t you?”

Sherlock is silent on the other end for a moment.

“Not everything, but I had an idea, yes.” He says.

“Then you can probably guess what my nightmare was about.”

“Yes, and that you’d rather not talk about it.”

“Yeah, if that’s okay.”

“What do you want to talk about then?”

“Hmm…talk science to me.” John grins, settling self under the covers more comfortably.

“Are you asking me to bore you to sleep?”

“Er, maybe?”

“Alright. I’ll talk about bees, though, they’re much more interesting. Not many people know this, but there’s actually thousands of different types of bees all over the world, and in Britain there’s about…” Sherlock’s voice fades into a relaxing hum that guides John back into sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I decided to not continue writing this story because I couldn't seem to find the motivation, but thank you to everyone who read and commented!


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